A Perch in New Vegas
by PoisnKills
Summary: I've spent my life traversing the Wastes. As a Courier for Caesar, I never had a delivery go south. That was until an NCR package blew my life sky-high in radioactive bits. My home, the Divide, was decimated, unknowingly by my own hands. Luckily, an incident with a Casino thug and his tribal goons has left me a blank slate. I now roam the Mojave as an accessory to Caesar's will.
1. Prologue

A light flickers in Big Sal's office as Button Man jerks the office door closed. I ease myself against the red wall behind Big Sal. From across the desk, Cachino watches me, loathing in his eyes. I smirk. He glares before reluctantly turning his attention to my new boss, Big Sal.

"Cachino…You really disappointed me." Big Sal pushes a familiar leather-bound journal across his desk. The ire in Cachino's eyes fades and is replaced by distress. Glee rises from my gut. The corners of my mouth curl. I can already feel the thorn being tweaked from my side.

"I'm sorry boss. Sometimes I just can't control myself." He is sweating, squirming. The sign of a man with no time left. I watch Button Man ready his sawed-off behind Cachino. "I don't know what's wrong with me. I swear I can turn things around. Just give me another chance."

"I don't wanna fuckin' hear it." Big Sal's hoarse voice seems fitting for this kind of speech. Grim Reaper incarnate. "You've lost the trust of the family. Goodbye. I hope Hell isn't too hot for you."

First blast: The force of the shotgun's pellets propel Cachino's corpse clean across the room. He lies limp against the filing cabinets just a meter away from my boots.

Second blast: The rat's head is mush. I wonder who is going to clean that up. Button Man smiles at the mess before him. Who knew you could make a mess of filth?

Big Sal turns in his chair to face me. "Thanks for bringing Cachino's transgressions to our attention. Shame we had to put him down, he was a good lieutenant." I flick a bit of skull and grey matter from my duster.

"Maybe I can spare some time to fill in on behalf of the late great Cachino." I flip the belt buckle beneath my duster to reveal a bronze bull, the mark of Caesar. "Vulpes Inculta sent me here to check up on the developments of the big plan." Surprised, Big Sal nods.

"Did he now? Well, I was actually hopin' to jaw at you about that. Now that Cachino is gone, we need some help wrappin' some things up, and you seem like the resourceful type."

"Whatdya need and how much are you payin'?"

"Two of the players, Troike and Clanden, have some problems that need to be solved. Ask them what they need. Don't worry about payment; I'll see to it that you are well compensated." Cracking my knuckles one by one, I cross the office without a word, ignoring how I track blood in my wake.


	2. A Fiendish Foul Play

I stroll across the outskirts of West Vegas. Not even a mole rat in sight, I slip into an easy gait down the decrepit road. Beneath my feet, faint notes of carnal merriment float from a sewer grate, a match in The Thorn no doubt coming to a swift climax. An urge to descend into the pit of debauchery surfaces. It proves underwhelming.

My body hastens towards the remains of a prewar house as my eyes descry my objective. Kneeling behind a slat of rotten wood, I survey my surroundings with a cursory sweep through binoculars.

No NCR patrols, no lurking Scorpion Gangers, no Fiend scouts. All-clear. With no moon nor stars, New Vegas's neon visage is the only light source on the horizon. For the task at hand that should be enough.

Within a gray footlocker, my target lies just shy of fifty meters before me, guarded by three Fiends. Animal skull capped helmets, reused tires, and mismatched furs and leathers sewn into armor makes the savages easy to spot. The drugged up bandits stand sentinel about the case, a cache of goods, and a fire. Two carry guns. One plasma rifle. One assault. The other has a knife. As I examine their movements, I ease my revolver out of its holster, feeling for six slugs. The Fiends rotate counterclockwise about the flickering fire. I pay no real mind to their shifting, just their body language. Replacing my gun, I see my opening.

She's in withdrawal. Her purple hair flies haphazardly to and fro as she jitters with paranoia; her assault rifle stays at the ready on her hip. The others are too high or don't care to take notice of their weak link. From my back I unsling my hunting rifle. Silencer already screwed in, I cock it and take aim.

They jump and spin towards the fire after the bullet sends pieces of woods flying. Startled, the purple-haired junkie squeezes off a handful of rounds into a her plasma rifle wielding comrade. Clutching his wound, the bandit slumps to the ground atop his weapon.

Purple and her knife-bearing friend stare in frightened confusion at their fallen mate. I furrow my brow waiting for either of them to make the next move. My patience dissipates in a flourish with the realization that there will be no next move unless I make it myself. Dammit. In one fluid movement, I rise, sling my rifle over my back, and unholster my revolver. I step through the frame of the dilapidated house and crouch, advancing with silent speed.

Mere moments after I take off, the Fiends ease out of petrification and rush towards the footlocker, knife and rifle at the ready. They hadn't been shocked into stillness. They'd been thinking. High functioning addicts. Just what I need.

"You'll die screamin' for your mother if you take another step, Red." The brunet to Purple's left steps forward, challenging me. The wind carries his threats past me into the cool night air. He signals for Purple to stay back. Now upright, my body lurches into a full sprint to its own accord.

With a roar, he swings his knife at my face in a sweeping arc from my left. Anticipating his speed, I step into a twist, allowing my body to roll along his right arm. The impetus of our collision causes him to stumble away as I skid to a halt between him and Purple.

Enmity in her eyes, she seethes, "You did this?" Looking between the unconscious Fiend and the brunet, a grin tugs at the corner of my mouth and I shrug. "You're mine, Red," she growls before throwing down her rifle. Oh! How I love a junkie.

Her form is sloppy. I sidestep her, catching her foot as I go. She tumbles toward her friend. I let the momentum pivot my body on my left foot and stop to scrutinize my foes. Having recovered, Purple jitters excitedly next to the Brunet. They both eye me steadily, no doubt noting the .44 in my hand.

Behind me I hear the dragging crunch of dirt and with just a look I fire two shots into the downed Fiend. The recoil sends a familiar warmth through my arm into my chest. My lips quiver into a sick grin as I let off two more slugs. Violent howls sound from Purple and the Brunet. Angling my head to face them completely, warm satisfaction of the kill blooms throughout my body as I notice Purple and the Brunet shaking with rage. Or withdrawal. Or both.

They charge in unison, coming from both sides. I'm caught short by their speed. I feel twin searing pains. A jagged slice into my left thigh and a clean headbutt knock me onto my side. A groan slips from my lips and my revolver slips from my hand. Groggy, I roll onto my feet and attempt to steady myself. My eyesight is blurred. My head throbs. The New Vegas lights overwhelm me.

Through my obscured vision I just make out their horned shapes shoving aside their comrade's bodies. Grasping their intention, I dive to my gun. I land on my wound with a grunt and grab my weapon with a quickness.

"Sly, get my gun, I'll get this. Hurry." Like a dog, Sly does as commanded.

I curse at the realization that I can't sit up in time with my rifle on my back. Instead, I take aim lying on my side.

"Agh, fuck," the Brunet, Sly, gasps.

One.

"No!" Purple's scream gives me the warm fuzzies. I whistle at the distraught purple-haired Fiend. In her arms I see the familiar green glow of a plasma rifle.

Revolver cocked.

Plasma charging.

Battle cry.

Two.

She goes down as a blast of plasma is loosed from the rifle. My eyes go wide. I attempt to roll onto my back and once again I am stopped by my damn rifle. Before I can brace myself, the molten green liquid scathes my bicep, leaving behind the acrid smell of dead flesh. The pain makes me nauseous.

I release a shaky sigh and roll onto my stomach, trying to ignore the pain. My boots crunch against the Mojave dirt as I stand up. Avoiding the expanding pool of blood around the bullet-ridden corpse, I approach Purple and her cohort. From my back pocket, I retrieve my switchblade and into my holster goes my revolver. Purple lays on her stomach, only just holding on. She shudders and growls as I place a hand on her head, putting my knife at the nape of her neck. My nostrils flare and I inhale as the blade punctures her skin and severs the vertebrae. Not keen on being shot in the back, I make quick work of repeating the procedure with Sly. Before making for my objective, I rip my shirt down the middle, tearing through the sleeves with the switchblade. I tie the rag around my thigh above the knife wound.

A grimace on my face, footlocker under my arm, I trek out of the South Vegas outskirts. I'm past the Sunset Sarsaparilla Bottling Plant and the Monte Carlo Suites before the adrenaline of the kill wears off. A limp works its way into my long stride. The pain is a pulsating wave that rocks through my leg with each heartbeat. I can feel the chilling, wet, and sticky stain of blood growing steadily. Its only reasonable considering how deep the gash is, but I can't help but frown at the pinpricks of fear along my scalp.

I shift the footlocker under my arm. There is no switching arms to be done. The mere thought makes me cringe. I mentally berate myself for leaving my stims and equipment with Mean Sonofabitch in Westside.

The residual heat from the plasma reminds me of the slow burn of a cigarette butt. I grit my teeth and distract myself. My boots drag and stomp across the crumbled pavement like an old world machine as thoughts of a bed and a bottle of scotch, to numb the pain away, surface. A room at Gomorrah would be ideal. Booze, food, and best of all no Fiends.

No.

Best of all would be Dazzle.

A cloud of dust floats from my red hair as I shake the thought from my head. These wounds hurt enough without a bad case of blue balls to agitate me.

And damn if this shit don't hurt. Fuckin' Fiends. I'll be happy when the Legion takes New Vegas for its own and Caesar destroys these revolting bandits. I hope they let Lanius loose on them. No tolerance for hopped up addicts in Caesar's Legion.

Of course that all depends on us winning the Second Battle of Hoover Dam. Hoover Dam...I hope, for the sake of what I learned from the Divide, that this operation is successful. If the profligates win, my efforts and sacrifices will be rendered worthless. Rolling my shoulder I glance at my right bicep. The burnt skin around the wound makes my arm look like a piece of burnt toast. Luckily the burn isn't deep, but it is rather long, wrapping halfway around my bicep.

Big Sal had better pay well.

I'm bathed in relief when I glimpse Westside's South Entrance. Two of Westside's drunks hobble about the street, making their way to an abandoned house to crash for the night. Quaint.

Careful not lose more blood than necessary, I lope with a limp toward the makeshift wooden door, footlocker in tow. Won't Marco get a kick outta this sight?

"Make sure the locks are secure, Perch. Judah thinks the Scorpions are planning something." The gate of wood and metal squeals behind me.

"Judah Kreger is an old veteran with too much time on his hands," I snort, "and if he thinks they're up to something, he'd have taken care of all security precautions. But to be frank, Marco," the footlocker clatters to the ground against the barrier of prewar cars and cables, "I don't give a shit." I unsling my rifle, plop down onto the metal case, stretch my legs, and let my rifle rest on my lap.

"Of course you don't, killer. Did you find the 'shipment'?" Marco's air quotes frame his face from the angle I'm sitting. I grunt and pat the footlocker. He kicks a rock into the side of the case eliciting a solid thunk. "Weapons, huh? Where's it goin'? The Kings? NCR? Come on. Lemme in on the actio-," the only lamp post flickers for ten seconds and when Marco's eyes refocus, they're full of disgust. He points to my arm. "Aw, man who's bad side did you get on?"

I feel fatigued by his blabbering. Languor coating each syllable, I reply, "Three Fiends. And no, you get enough action in your little whore den. Send me that ugly green sonofa bitch and then clear a room in the whore den." Its then that the metal armored ass sees my blood-drenched pants leg. He turns tail, bolting towards the center of Westside. I squint as his silhouette fades and disappears around the corner, the New Vegas lights blocked out by the buildings of West Vegas. Letting my head rest against the still warm metal barrier, I try to occupy and keep myself conscious.

My blood pressure is dropping steadily, the gash in my thigh never having stopped bleeding. I don't understand how it's possible that my blood hasn't coagulated. I'm not anemic. No hemophilia. Dust settles on my nose as I lazily shake away light-headedness.

There is no reason I can presently fathom that would prevent blood clotting. Blood thinning medication? When would I have...Fucking Fiends.

"Poison!" My exclamation makes the ground shake. No. Its footsteps. Mean Sonofabitch is running.

I can feel my heart beat quicken.

Too fast.

Inhale. Exhale.

Too fast

My super mutant savior.

Too slow.

As my consciousness is snuffed, as loud as physically possible, I call out, "Anti-venom, Mean."

The beginning of a roar penetrates my mind before silence envelopes me.


	3. Broken Brain

"Onofre…?" My heart constricts at the sound of that voice despite the unintelligibility of his speech. Sluggishly, I meditate over the familiarity of his quiet timbre, the light pitch of his voice.

"Who are you? Where am I?" I try to inquire but a pain shoots through the base of my skull. I can't focus my thoughts.

"I don't trust that thing, Onofre." His warning angers me. Why? The emotion clouds my mind. This all feels so familiar. Why can't I ground my thoughts? The pain from my skull spreads down my spine, radiating through my body. The more I try to focus, the greater my pain.

"There's no time! Just run…I don't blame you for any of this." The raw, red, fleshless face of a Marked Man flashes before me. Red hatred seizes my body.

"Julio…" My eyes open. Heart racing, I feel as though I've been chased by a deathclaw. It hurts to breathe. I attempt to pull myself up, but my left leg screams in pain. Choking on a silent yelp I push at the sweaty sheets and thrust my upper body into a sitting position. The edges of my vision blur momentarily and my head throbs. I inhale gulps of air as memories of the fight bombard me.

My leg is strapped to the bed, ensuring immobility. Strapped to my thigh is a super stimpak auto-injector. A white patch is taped above the apparatus, blotches of dark red along its length. The additional vial of medicine attached to the capacity gauge is nearly empty. Raising my arm, I look at my bicep. Like my thigh, it is bandaged and equipped with a stimpak. The burning sensation from earlier has vanished.

Upon surveying the dank room around me, I know one thing is true: I'm in the Casa Madre Apartments; the sighs and moans of Westside's infamous whore house penetrate the thin walls of the room. But there's still the question of how long I e been out of commission.

One strap at a time I unlatch the stimpaks from my limbs and my leg from the bed easing my legs over the side. My skin quivers as the punctures from the hypodermic needles close, the lingering medication aiding in rapid regeneration. The pile of wood and debris below the bed scratches at the rough pads of my feet. I wiggle my toes letting the blood circulate and warm them. The hand-lamp beside the bed offers enough light for me to see my clothes on the table beside a small pile of chems. My rucksack and weapons lie just beside the table.

With one hand on the metal frame of the bed for support, I rise. Stimpak sickness makes my muscles sluggish, weak. I gnash my teeth at the pain, but I am able to hold myself up sufficiently.

My legs take slow strides toward the table just two meters away. By the time I reach it, my naked body is coated in sweat and my heart is beating double-time to pump out blood. The table shakes under my hands as I brace myself, letting my weight bear down. I take deep shuddering breaths in an attempt to calm my heart. In a clumsy mound before me lie my duster, blood-stained pants, and my ripped shirt-turned-tourniquet. Tossing the rags aside, I lay out my duster upon the table. My fingers trace the seams of the red insignia on the back of the duster as my breathing slows.

The bull on my belt buckle mirrors that on the duster. A rush of determination pushes through me at the sight. I need to return to The Strip and complete my objective. Bunching my eyebrows together in thought, I rotate, careful not to aggravate my leg, and scan the room again. Just as I suspected.

The footlocker isn't here.

Rage begins to bloom in my chest.

My revolver is in my hand before I can register my body moving. I limp to the door, ignoring the pain.

Leaning against the wall beside the door, I check to assure the gun is loaded. Four slugs. It'll do.

Gun trained at the door, I reach with my left hand to turn the doorknob. As my index and middle fingers touch the metal, it begins to turn.

Marco's face emerges before the tip of my gun, brown eyes wide as he takes in the sight before him. His mouth opens to speak but I cock the revolver, effectively silencing him.

I swallow and cough to clear my throat. "Where's my shipment?" My voice is raspy. The sound reminds me of my run-in with Benny. Marco's response tears me from my thoughts.

"I wanted to keep it safe 'cuz I knew if anything happened to it you'd kill me. I'll take you to it...right after I get you some pants." Gritting my teeth, I ease the gun hammer forward and let my arm rest at my side.

I exhale at the relief of strain on my arm. The brown-skinned man edges into the room with caution. "You should sit. I'll go get Doctor Usanagi and your shipment." I grunt in response as he dashes out of the room.

Unable to hold myself up any longer, I slump down to the floor, blocking part of the bedside lantern's glow. My thigh aches. If I'm going to return to the Strip anytime soon, I'll need transport.

I sigh and close my eyes, chin resting on my bare chest. Mean Sonofabitch can't come with me. The super mutant is Westside's only defense against the Fiends. Judah'd put a bullet in my head if I made them vulnerable like that. Definitely don't need another one of those.

I rub the scar above my eyebrow, recalling the late Doc Mitchell's questions upon my recovery. The small .22 sized hole beneath the scar tissue is as hollow as my answers had felt. Almost everything I told him had felt true. I knew Perch wasn't my real name, but it seemed fitting. I had enough scars from before the platinum chip incident that it's obvious I have my own permanent perch on Death's shoulder. Yes. Perch was a perfect choice. I'm sure my real name pales metaphorically in comparison.

The pensive smirk from my thoughts vanishes as I hear the doorknob click. Back flat against the wall, revolver in hand, I leer at the reemergence of the ball-cap wearing building owner.

"Pants," he strategically throws the black jeans on my crotch as Dr. Usanagi enters the room. She looks uncomfortable. Like she's never been in a brothel before. Her lips are curled into a tight scowl. My smirk reemerges. Marco shakes his head. The footlocker tucked under his arm draws my attention from the doctor.

"Set that next to my bag," I direct. "Where do you want me, Miss Usanagi?" My playful tone seems to set her more on edge.

"The bed please. Marco, would you be so kind as to assist him?" Her arms are crossed protectively against her chest. I frown at her order and glare at Marco as he approaches me. My teeth grind when he grabs my left arm, wrenching me off the floor. I hold the jeans against my groin out of respect for Her Royal Highness.

As we approach the edge of the bed, one of the spikes on Marco's metal plated armor nicks my forearm.

I tap his gauntlet with the revolver in my right hand, "Careful there, Marc. I might decide I don't like you anymore." He chuckles and releases my arm.

"You've never liked me, dick. You put up with my shit just like I do yours." My eyebrows rise and my lips curl up.

"Oh come now, I like you. You're obedient. Hardly ever have to rough you up for compliance."

He rolls his eyes and walks to the door. "If you need me, I'll be outside the building consoling Mean. He got to you just in time the other night. You gave big ugly a real scare there. Mean Sonofabitch sure is sensitive for a super mutant." He leaves with a dismissive wave. From the hall I hear, "Have at him, Usanagi."

I shiver at the lingering sweat pool on the bed from my nightmare. My eyes focus on the Asian woman before me. She's standing stock still; arms crossed; lips shut tight; eyes stern, unwavering. I hold her gaze, bemused by her demeanor.

Doctor Usanagi has never been a fan of me. Before I had ever set foot in the New Vegas Medical Clinic she knew of me and my more public escapades, as did most of New Vegas's populace. This black-haired physician just happens to be more self-righteous than her peers. Upon recollection, she was frank in her abhorrence in regards to my actions. The phrase "cazador incarnate" was worked into her greeting. Fortunately for her, I quite admire the deadly nature of the cazador. Otherwise, the Mojave would be one doctor less.

"I've got places to be as do you, I'm sure. So if you could get over yourself and check me out, we can both get on with our day." Placing my revolver at the end of the bed, I beckon to the doctor. She exhales and I imagine the stick in her ass inches out a bit.

She sets her doctor's bag beside my right foot. Like a decent gentlemen, I hold my jeans in place as the doctor begins. I squint my eyes at her when she rips off the first bandage tape strip, pulling out a few stray hairs with it. Despite the absence of a reaction from me, Dr. Usanagi looks smug as she continues without further mishap.

She stands when she has finished observing the progress my thigh has made. The wound seems superficial, now a soft pink scrape on a canvas of light beige. Curious, I run my hand over the cut, marveling at the unblemished skin. I don't deal with super stimpaks too often; the sickness makes me too vulnerable.

"Like you said, we both have places to be," my head raises at her dull voice, "so if you would don your breeches, I can examine your arm." I wait for her to about face, but she is rooted, unwavering. With snigger and a grunt, I push myself off the bed only to be pushed back by a small, pale hand. An "oomph" falls from my lips as I bounce slightly on the mattress. This woman is a masochist.

My hand takes hold of her wrist and shock registers on her face. Before either of us can physically react, I feel my mind slow. Dr. Usanagi's skin shifts to a deep caramel shade, her eyes a youthful almond-framed hazel. Her exasperated frown morphs into a tender beam. The angelic visage is framed by a copper cloud of tresses.

"Let me go or I'll get hermano meyor. I'll get big brother, Onofre."

"I'm not scared of him. No tengo miedo!" I respond out if what feels like reflex. Her giggle flutters through my mind. She raises her free hand, and flicks my face. My right cheek is unexpectedly set aflame in pain.

I inhale sharply, turning to face the woman before me. The pale doctor's face is a portrait of fright.

"I said release me, Perch." Despite her apparent state, the woman's voice is calm, placating. I free her hand from my grip. I stare in confusion between the doctor's face and my hand. She rights herself, rubbing her wrist and shooting a befuddled glower at me. We share an emotion-laden silence.

What just happened is beyond me. It felt like a waking dream. But...the sense of déjà vu was too prevalent for it to be just my imagination.


End file.
